Page 40

Heathcliff

I rise from the floor, my knees wet with blood and my hands trembling.

“Rockford was a longtime client of yours, wasn’t he?” I ask Hindley. “You guys were friends?”

Hindley doesn’t answer. Instead he walks over to the bar cart and grabs a decanter of whiskey, yanks out the stopper, and pours himself a glass.

“Never mind,” I mutter. “Just thought you might have some idea who would murder him.”

Except murder is too tame a word. This guy was butchered.

When Hindley and I got here, to a suburb just outside Augusta, Georgia, we had to force our way into the house.

No one had found the body yet. The stench was goddamn awful, and there were actual chunks of him missing.

This guy’s gonna have to rip out his carpet, throw out his furniture, and repaint his walls when he comes to, which should happen in just a few minutes.

I haven’t had such a tough job resurrecting someone since Ian.

Ian, the shapeshifter, the trickster. Found dead on Lockwood island, inside that revenant mansion, why, why? I’m missing something. Can’t quite grasp it.

The carpet squelches under my boot as I step backward, reeling from a sudden wave of weakness. At the same moment my eyes land on a small glob of squishy red flesh, just beneath the edge of the sofa.

Aw, fuck—

I run for the kitchen and vomit into the sink. My whole body is shaking, worn-out from pouring so much energy from myself into this guy just to bring him back. I’m gonna need a couple days to recover from this one.

Turning on the faucet, I rinse the sick down the drain. I wash my hands, my face, my goddamn neck and arms, every bit of exposed skin. I want a shower, but I gotta watch the guy and make sure he wakes up okay.

I stagger back to the living room and drop into a chair. Hindley passes me a glass of whiskey and I drink. I need it.

The guy on the floor starts to stir. He’s still slick with his own blood, but he’s alive. He’s moving, sitting up, wiping gore out of his eyes, staring around like he can’t believe the mess. Spatters of his blood decorate the coffee table, the couch, the drapes.

I raise the bottle to him. “You’ll have a hell of a cleaning bill,” I say. “But you’re alive. Best money you ever spent, huh?”

“Shit,” he exclaims. “I remember…some guys came to the door, just barged in and attacked me. God, it hurt.”

I lean forward in the chair, offering my whiskey glass to him. He accepts it and drinks gratefully.

A wave of weakness rushes over me, turning my limbs watery. I’m gonna need an ass-ton of food after that resurrection, and there’s no way I can eat until I get out of this house.

“We should go,” I tell Hindley. “I need to eat.”

“Wait, you’re just gonna leave?” exclaims Rockford. “What about the mess? What about the guys who killed me? What if they come back? I’m gonna need another tattoo.”

“Naw, man,” I tell him. “It’s a one-time thing. Can’t happen again.”

“So if I die next time, I just stay dead?” Rockford’s voice rises an octave, his eyes bugging out.

“Most people do,” I respond dryly. That’s just like humans—ungrateful bastards, all of us.

This guy’s got himself another shot at life, and now he’s bitching about being mortal?

He’s lucky I’ve got no energy right now, or I’d give him a good right hook to the jaw to remind him to be thankful. Gratitude, man. It ain’t that hard.

I’m about to rise from the chair and insist Hindley drive me to a diner when I feel a buzzing burn along the left side of my abdomen.

I yank up the hem of my T-shirt, even though I already know which tattoo it is. Who it is.

It’s Cathy.

It’s Cathy .

I keep saying it in my head, trying to grasp it.

Cathy’s tattoo is buzzing, burning.

That means…

That means Cathy…my Cathy… She’s…

I’m out of the chair in half a second, my fist crashing into Hindley’s face. His nose cracks and he chokes, dazed. I grab a fistful of his shirt, holding him still while I jam my fingers into his pocket and grab his keys. Didn’t have time to ask nicely for them. He’d have said no anyway.

Out the door I charge, into his truck. I roar out of the driveway and careen onto the road.

A wave of dizziness hits me, and I retch. My stomach is hollow, my body empty, my energy reserves bone-dry.

The timing is too fucking perfect. Somebody planned this. Someone wanted me down for the count, didn’t want me to resurrect her.

Who, though? Her dad? That snivelly Linton kid? But they don’t know what I am, what I can do. Somebody knew , and they had Rockford butchered on purpose, to keep me from bringing Cathy back. Maybe that Ian bastard. I still don’t know what his deal is.

I can sense which direction I need to go to find her, sort of like she can tell where the people are that she’s supposed to mourn. It’s a bone-deep instinct, passed down through generations.

Her body is somewhere to the southeast, about two hours away.

A raw sob cracks through my throat.

Cathy.

“Don’t leave me.” My voice grates through my clenched teeth. “Don’t you fucking leave me. You stay close, baby. Don’t go so deep into the Vague that I can’t find you.”

My trembling fingers can barely grip the wheel. Much as I hate it, I’ve got to eat, or I’ll pass out before I get there.

Twenty minutes later, I’m speeding down a dark lane. I barely remember pulling up at the first open drive-thru I found and demanding half a dozen burgers and the biggest Coke they had, but somehow I’ve got the protein and the sugar, and I’m fueling up while driving as fast as I dare.

I have to get there quick, before she drifts too far.

The longer I wait, the deeper into the dark she’ll go.

It usually takes about seventy-two hours before a soul is beyond reach, and seventy-two hours isn’t enough to regain all my energy, not after what I just did for Rockford.

If I wait and try to gain some of it back before I rez Cathy, she could be too far away in the Vague.

Or her murderer might move her body somewhere else or worse—cut her apart and take the pieces to different locations.

Whoever arranged this knows me. Knows what I can do. Understood how to drain me to the dregs so I couldn’t interfere with whatever scheme they got going on.

Cathy.

Drops start spattering my windshield. I peer through the slashing wipers and the hammering rain.

The road is dark and wet now, black and shimmery as the Vague.

I’ve always wondered where the souls go after their time in that limbo is done.

Do they just vanish into the depths of Nothing, or is there a destination?

I finish the burgers and gulp down the soda.

Then I turn on the radio and sync up my recovery playlist, ignoring the missed calls and texts from Hindley.

I got a bunch of songs whose rhythm seems to scratch the itch just right after a tough resurrection.

If I were a scientist, I’d probably look into it more, figure out how the sound waves resonate with my necromancer energy, but as it is, I wouldn’t know where to start, and I don’t care to explain it.

I crank up Nirvana’s “Come As You Are” and lean harder on the gas.

By the time I reach the end of the playlist, I’m almost there.

The road to Old Sheldon Church is like a tunnel to hell. The trees hunch over it, their gnarled branches meeting at the peak like snakes planning to swallow each other. Their trunks are yellowed in the beams of my headlights. Rain pelts through the boughs, slicking the black pavement.

Before I reach the church, I pull to the side, onto gravel, and throw the truck in park.

Whoever planned this knew I might come for Cathy. Which means this could be a trap.

I’m the guy who always took it on the chin and didn’t fight back, who toughed it out because he couldn’t see any hope.

But Cathy changed me into someone willing to fight, not just for her but for myself.

I don’t like hurting or killing people…but by god, if anyone tries to stop me from getting to her, I’ll drop them on the spot.

I leave the truck, easing the door shut instead of slamming it.

I keep to the darkest shadows of the trees, my steps muffled by the pouring rain and wet grass.

The trees are mostly bare by now, but it’s the South, and the undergrowth is still leafy, so I’ve got some cover.

Unfortunately, that also means I’m noisier, so I try to time my movements with the biggest gusts of wind and sweeping rain.

As I get closer to the church, a figure moves in the darkness ahead. He’s hiding in the shadows, too, but he’s got his back to me, far as I can tell. Waiting.

A twig crunches nearby, and I almost leap into action—but I hold myself still.

It’s another man, approaching the first. “Hell of a day,” he mutters. “First that guy in Augusta, now this watchdog shit? I’m soaked, man.”

“Hey, I don’t mind the rain. We all needed a shower after that job,” chuckles the first man. “Never seen so much blood shoot out of one guy.”

These guys came from a murder in Augusta, where Rockford lives. And now they’re here, watching the graveyard where Cathy’s body lies? It can’t be a coincidence. I’d bet my dick they killed Rockford. Which means whatever I do to them is justified.

A vicious, glorious rage swells inside me. I’ve never had the chance to test my strength on someone who really deserved the pain. These guards are a fucking gift, just the outlet I need.

The burgers I ate renewed my strength but not my necromancer energy. Lucky for me, beating up some assholes doesn’t require necromancer shit. Even if I’m dizzier and weaker than usual, I should be a match for these bastards.

“I’m going to check the road,” says one of the men. “If nothing happens in another hour, I say we leave.”

“I’ll back you up on that, but Aaron’s a stickler. He’ll want all four of us to stay the full eight hours we were paid for.”

“Aaron,” the first man scoffs derisively. He walks off toward the road.